


the beast you've made of me

by AthanRG



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Blood, PWP, Smoking, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 11:31:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14354580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AthanRG/pseuds/AthanRG
Summary: She will tear at his flesh and grasp at his hair; she will sink her fingernails into him, blood red dripping from her fingers. She will laugh cruelly, writhing against him, whilst he will spread his arms to be at her mercy, a hint of a dreamy smirk and lust-filled eyes gazing upon her as she heartlessly consumes him.Sherlock can't think of a more enticing ending.





	the beast you've made of me

**Author's Note:**

> Repost. Title comes from Florence + The Machine's "Howl".

Sherlock knows it is her before she even enters.

Although the door still remains closed, and he is the sole occupant in his flat, and the city before his eyes continues to cry with life under the cloak of darkness, as if calling in despair for his attention, the air around him suddenly changes.

It grows heavier, overpowering, suffocating.

Less room to breathe. Less room to see, less room to sense, less room to be.

As it always becomes, as it always is, whenever he is around  _her_.

The shaped wood of his violin beneath his cool fingertips suddenly turns to scorching coal, and moisture collects at his palms; his heart takes to pound wildly against his chest, nostrils swearing of a scent of vanilla that has swept into the room, until its very essence becomes all he can sense.

_Palms over breasts, teeth at the chin, nose pressed against the sensitive arch of her jawbone, he inhaled sweetened vanilla._

The door snaps shut behind him; his eyes still determined to watch through the flat windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling, over the city that had been his first lover, the city that had made him first experience the burning rush of blood that comes with feeling alive.

 _Breathe, and it will all be okay_ , his mother had always told him.

But had she ever met Irene Adler?

The Woman utters no sound, although he is certain that her back is pressed against the doorway, palms are pressed against the smooth wood, heart is pressed against her chest, like the cruel trail liquid fire made over the weeping earth.

But her lips will be red.

The stain of her lips will run red, and will be as blood, like the merciless creature she is, because she is a plague, and she will tear at his flesh.

She will tear at his flesh and grasp at his hair; she will sink her fingernails into him, blood red dripping from her fingers. She will laugh cruelly, writhing against him, whilst he will spread his arms to be at her mercy, a hint of a dreamy smirk and lust-filled eyes gazing upon her as she heartlessly consumes him.

Sherlock can't think of a more enticing ending.

"Interesting," he murmurs at last, eyes still locked to the city, the sharp kiss of her heels against the floor the only noticeable sound behind his back. "I was under the assumption that London was off limits. Didn’t send an invitation, either."

He lets his voice seep with a trace of anger—she’s reckless for the fun of it, and as much as he enjoys it and even encourages it, there’s a part of him that will always feel protective of her. Still, when the heat from her palms sears through his suit-clad shoulders, he inhales deeply, eyes shutting and visualizing her black-fur coat, the oh-so red lips, the sweeping, shoulder-length bob, the tiny waist, the familiar lower lip of red.

And when he hears the material of her coat fall to the ground below her, like golden, free-falling leaves on a crisp autumn day, he swears he sees stars before him.

"Oh, Mr Holmes,” her sultry voice announces, “You know that's not how I play."

* * *

A few years ago, some time between Karachi and being dead himself, with the novelty of sex and  _her_  cursing through his veins, he would have been joyous at the scene before him, just as feral and wild as her in his exploration of her anatomy and psychology (has mastered the former; is still somewhat blatantly ignorant about the latter).

But now…

Now there’s the quiet humming of static beneath his fingertips as his body retunes with hers, a familiarity that was once frightening coming alive as his gaze sweeps across the length of ivory skin, cataloguing each way in which The Woman is different, cataloguing each way in which she is the same. He reacquaints himself with the shade of her lips and the thickness of her hair; he files the lines around her eyes and her new measurements.

Her body is straddling his; his suit coat has been carelessly tossed to the side, and her knees support her body as she hovers over him atop his leather chair, fingers etching at his lower lip.

Slowly, he runs his hands over her bare back, meeting her strapless black bra, before he continues downward.

Her knees separate even farther.

One lone finger traces the tiny bow at the row of her spine, the tiny bow that holds the strings of her thong together.

"What am I going to do to you, Sherlock?"

Her voice is low and husky, sex and sin turned into sound, his name a sensual caress against his ear as her fingers grasp onto the hair at his neck, perhaps a bit of a painful grasp.

It is all pain when it comes to her.

Water to blood, water to blood.

Good to evil, life to death, virtue to sin.

But he will be damned to claim she isn't the most enticing sin he has ever seen.

He lets out a dramatic sigh, tracing the intricate shape of the tiny bow, loop and loop, loop and loop, back and forth. "I'm not  _particularly_  in the mood."

He sees the perfect row of teeth as she smiles, red lips curling with pleasure, blue eyes darkening to near coal.

Nearly misses his point, almost giving her a grin of his own. Isn't the devil the most beautiful thing to man?

She tugs at his hair furiously, making him wince, making him wince with pleasure and pain.

"Behave," she hisses into his ear, before dipping her tongue into the delicate structure.

Her fingers slowly undo the first few buttons of his shirt, hand delving into the ripple of curls below the fabric.

Red lips move along his jawbone, barely touching, barely there, barely Irene, like the whisper of the devil to man.

His hand moves from the tiny bow down the string at her arse, to the front of her body, tracing the thong's line, one finger brushing at the apex of her thighs, eliciting a whimper from her red mouth.

The devil, the devil is pleased.

Her thigh quivers as she bents one leg and exposes her inner thigh to his gaze. As she stretches her leg to the side, one pink, neatly waxed petal of flesh escapes the imprisonment of the fabric and meets his hungry gaze.

The man, the man is pleased.

* * *

It is the most erotic thing he has ever seen.

Her body, which had been cool, perhaps a bit frigid, beneath his touch, immediately grows hot. She tosses her head back, taking in deep breaths of air, fingers digging into his shoulders, as droplets of rain run from her brow down the sides of her lovely face.

The hand that is not between the flesh of her thighs draws patterns over the heated skin of her arms, over her neck, down the line from breasts to waist. She is gasping now. Her eyes are wide, open, unrelenting to the man before her. Red lips open, pale chest glowing, short bob clinging to her mist-soaked neck, she thrusts forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, her frantic pleas for him to 'take it off' ringing in his ears.

And he succumbs to her prayers, freeing her bra from her sweat-soaked skin and tossing it to join his suit coat.

And when she pulls back, still gasping, he thinks that the bare-breasted devil is far more enticing.

Her gasps become louder and quicker; her hands grab his free one and lead it to her backside, down her waist, down the cheeks of her arse.

And although the tiny bow has such an intricate shape, it gives way so easily.

* * *

“You're heinous," he whispers atop his bed.

Naked body on top of his sheets, hands fisting at the silk; it’s now his turn to have his eyes deliriously closed, but he simply knows the red of her lips is still intact, knows about the glean of moisture covering her entire skin.

"You're so heinous, Woman."

She has taken nearly a hundred pictures.

Some of her cunt, some of her pink nipples, some of her eyes.

Some of his backside, some of his swollen lips, some of his jawbone arch.

But most are of them in the most erotic of positions.

The golden freckles of his eyes greet her as she nearly taps the screen of her phone, the right side of his erection the sole focus on the screen. "You send one of those pictures out, Woman, and you'll never see the light of day," he threatens tiredly.

Irene chuckles darkly as she traces a red fingernail over his left hipbone before taking the picture. "First on the forwarding address? Mr Mycroft Holmes."

"You wouldn't dare."

She sets the phone down, the usual challenge and mischief in her eyes exacerbated by a lust that matches his own. "Are you sure?" she breaths gloriously over him, just a hint of a promise before lowering her head and taking him into her mouth.

He is not sure. Sherlock Holmes is never sure when it comes to Irene Adler, but he finds the uncertainty unimportant—for the time being—as he relishes in her attentions and the devious gleam of eyes that gaze up at him.

After all, man never overcomes the red-lipped devil.

* * *

In their years of illicit visits and under-the-water alliances, he’s noticed a pattern in his want for her: it simply linearly escalates, and as time passes by, regardless of present cases for him and current lovers for her, there’s nothing else that is able to obliterate the focus he places on her mind as well as its vessel when she is present, and sometimes even when she’s not.

 _She eclipses the whole of her sex_ , as he imagines John would put it if given the chance of openly recounting the series of events that once happened after a meeting at 44 Eaton Square.

Just as now, as she leans with her brand of insolent elegance against the headboard, mouth gushing out the last breath of a Gauloises before discarding the stub in a chipped, long forgotten cup of tea.

He simply hasn’t wanted her more.

 _God, you're beautiful_ , his open mouth tells her against her breastbone.  _You're breathtaking_ , and she smiles in silent, prideful understanding as one of his palms cups a cold and crying breast. He runs his palms against her bare thighs and looks up to her, brushing the marred cupid bow of his lips against the arch at her jawbone.

"I want another one," Irene simply says, in that tone of hers that leaves no room for another option, and has him reeling with the abruptness of it.

It’s in that temporary state of idiocy that she pulls away from him to her feet, taking a single cigarette from the package on the bedside table before walking over to the windows that are now draped in burgundy curtains.

Facing him, she sets her feet wide apart and leans her back against the curtains, cigarette unlit between her slim fingers.

And like the man to the devil, he is immediately drawn to her.

Like the temptation of sin, like the enticement of evil, he stands up and grabs the lighter, moving towards her in a predatory manner.

There she stands, the red-lipped devil, bare body against dark red, pink petals against white skin, pink nipples against pale flesh, red lips against gleaming white teeth.

"I want another one, Sherlock."

He slowly approaches her.

"No."

She runs her palms over her breasts.

"I want another one, Sherlock."

He is closer, dark eyes watching her hands.

"No."

She smiles wickedly, peeking up at him through thick lashes.

"I want another one, Sherlock."

Teeth tugging at her bottom lip, eyes blissfully shut as her right hand descends and she touches herself.

And that’s the power of her. He is before her before she can blink, arm twisting her body, twisting her in pain and pleasure, making her white breasts and hairless sex press against the pricey curtains.

Her throaty chuckle sounds rampant in his head as he lights the cigarette that she places in her lips, her other arm reaching backwards to press his skin against hers, head tossing and a tendril of smoke darting out of full and red lips, as the cycle begins all over again. He takes her there, hot and moist body scraping against the curtains, the rich scent from the cigarette mingling irrevocably with the smells of sex, a connection he might never get rid off.

And when she finishes her fag and brings him to the ground to climb on top of him, his arms outstretched, her fingers grasping at his hair before moving to claw at his chest to draw sweet blood, he gazes upon her. He gazes upon her as she holds him down and rolls her hips relentlessly against his, breasts bouncing, eyes closed, sweat glistening, lips still red and open in the most primal form of pleasure, before stars finally come to his lust-filled eyes, her name, unbidden, escaping from the depths of his chest for the first time in months.

* * *

"Sherlock! Sherlock, come on, Lestrade’s waiting!"

Sherlock takes one final glance at his appearance before grabbing his coat to join an upset, almost-father-for-a-second-time John.

He wants to reassure him the unexpected Natalya has only a twenty-five percent chance of arriving in the next three hours, which is how long it should take them to solve this case—that, if Mary’s dilation rate remains the same. But then his eyes catch sight of his phone, screen glimmering with a new text, his heart hammering against his ribs with the promise that always hold unknown numbers.

He licks his lips before opening it, screen tilted a discreet angle away from his best friend’s unaware gaze.

_I don’t believe your brother would have liked to see this._

And with the message comes a picture, and with the picture comes a smile, a naughty, naughty smile planted upon the red-lipped devil's face.

Until next time.

**Author's Note:**

> OK, this is no new story, just a little something I posted-then-deleted about two years ago. Honestly, fandom has no room in my life anymore--with two kids under five at home there's little room for anything else, tbh--but I got a bit of free time over the last few weeks and watched all of Sherlock again. Can I just say how much I hated Series 4? That's offtopic but now you know it.
> 
> Anyway, the adlocker side of me doesn't seem to die, and it seems a bit unfair to have this little thing rotting unnoticed in my hard drive. I miss writing but my enjoyments lay elsewhere nowadays, so don't expect anything else from me--but I promise not to take this one down--again.
> 
> Thank you for reading this. Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
